


Angel, Please

by Jenanigans1207



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Song - Freeform, and aziraphale is so excited about it that he takes it, and then decides aziraphale is more important, crowley owns one (1) book, crowley tries to avoid his feelings, crowley writes songs for aziraphale, ineffable husbands, just to see what book crowley would pick, soft, this is just a lot of soft fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207
Summary: As it turns out, despite spending 6000 years in increasingly close proximity to each other, there’s a decent amount of things about Crowley that Aziraphale doesn’t know.For example, Crowley is helplessly in love with him. The stupid kind of love. The turn-the-whole-world-inside-out kind of love. The kind of love that left him standing in a tornado of hell fire, staring down a series of archangels. That kind of love.On a milder note, Aziraphale also doesn’t know that Crowley is the writer of the song he’s humming along pleasantly to at the moment. And in that vein, he surely has no idea that Crowley is trying not to panic on the inside, trying to keep his cool nonchalance intact as Aziraphale starts to sing the words absently under his breath. Because, of course, he knows every single lyric. Why wouldn’t he? Crowley has to remind himself to breathe.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 218





	Angel, Please

**Author's Note:**

> So, I originally started this for Ineffable Husbands week which was months ago. And I just never finished it. But one of my 2020 resolutions is to clean up my google docs and to finish most (or all, ideally) of my unfinished fics. So this is my first step towards that!
> 
> Also, we're just assuming Crowley held on to the song for a really long time before handing it over to the Ra Ra Riot, Because obviously they weren't around in the 1700s xD

As it turns out, despite spending 6000 years in increasingly close proximity to each other, there’s a decent amount of things about Crowley that Aziraphale doesn’t know. 

For example, Crowley is helplessly in love with him. The stupid kind of love. The turn-the-whole-world-inside-out kind of love. The kind of love that left him standing in a tornado of hell fire, staring down a series of archangels. That kind of love. 

On a milder note, Aziraphale also doesn’t know that Crowley is the writer of the song he’s humming along pleasantly to at the moment. And in that vein, he surely has no idea that Crowley is trying not to panic on the inside, trying to keep his cool nonchalance intact as Aziraphale starts to sing the words absently under his breath. Because, of course, he knows every single lyric. Why wouldn’t he? Crowley has to remind himself to breathe. 

The song, titled ‘Angel Please’ and made famous by a band called Ra Ra Riot, had started out as a poem. It was after a particularly nasty fight of theirs (1764, Crowley remembers distinctly, the shape of Aziraphale’s silhouette as he stalked out of the room forever burned into his mind). It wasn’t the first time Crowley had tried writing, but it was the first time he’d written from such a broken, emotional place. Demons, emotions— they’re not supposed to mix and all that Jazz. 

But the truth— one that Aziraphale _does_ know, as it were— was that Crowley was a terrible demon. Truly rubbish, amongst the worst. Which is just as well in his book, honestly. Especially now that he’s not really a demon anymore anyways. Still, at the time he’d been trying to at least put on a demonic front and the song was distinctly undemonic. It was soft and full of that sort of pleading that only came with a broken heart. 

But the song was also the only way he’d been able to cope with his feelings. It’d been the only thing to make him feel even the smallest amount better. So, he’d written it. And when he’d liked it, he’d handed it off to the band. 

He’d never expected it to become popular. Never expected _anyone_ to hear it, let alone _Aziraphale._ But as luck would have it (was it really lucky? He still hadn’t decided), Aziraphale _had_ heard it. And he’d loved it, incidentally. It was like he’d been drawn to it— as if he could tell that it’d been written for him. He played it for _years_ after first hearing it and it had sent Crowley’s heart racing every single time. Partially because the emotions of it were still raw and partially out of fear that Aziraphale would realize. 

But Aziraphale, bless him (nghk), was rather oblivious in general and never seemed to think of it as anything more than a song. Which was both painful and a complete relief. 

“Angel,” Crowley was sitting stiffly on Aziraphale’s couch, unable to melt into it the way he usually did. Images of the store up in flames filled his mind, impossible to shake. “Can we change the song? I’m still sick of it from 100 years ago.”

It was a lie— Crowley would _never_ get sick of hearing Aziraphale sing his words and knowing that those words had a place in his heart. But the song was too painful for him at the moment. While the scar of their fight had faded over the centuries, the scar of their most recent fight was still incredibly fresh. Every word Aziraphale has said to him (‘ _Friends? We’re not friends! I don’t even like you!’_ ) felt like it has been engraved into his heart with a rusty knife. The moment Aziraphale had rejected him at the bandstand (‘ _There is no ‘our side’, Crowley. Not anymore!’_ ), the words from this song had risen up in his head. 

_Oh, Angel, please, please stay with me._

So, while Armageddon didn’t turn out to be a credible threat and the world hadn’t ended, Crowley felt as though _his world_ had been fundamentally altered. Aziraphale inviting him over, doting over him as usual, obviously indicated that he hadn’t meant a single thing he’d said. And logically, Crowley knew that. The world was ending, they’d lost the Antichrist and things were just generally spinning out of control. It was completely logical and reasonable for him to have said things he didn’t mean in the heat of the moment. 

But emotionally, well…

Crowley was hurt. Still, a week later. It still felt like someone was actively carving those words into his heart, a little deeper with each pass, just to ensure he _never_ forgot. 

And so, a song he’d written in the midst of one of their worst fights felt more like salt in the wound than anything else. 

“Dear?” Aziraphale glanced up from the book he’d been flipping through, leveling his blue gaze on Crowley. The question was clear as day in his tone. 

Crowley, luckily, had 6000 years of practice under his belt at not caving under Aziraphale’s attention. “ s’like I said, I’m just sick of this song.”

There was a beat of silence between the two of them, broken only by the music from the song. The song itself was upbeat, the exact opposite of the way Crowley had been feeling when he’d written it. One drunken night he’d told the whole story (well, minus the whole ‘celestial beings’ and ‘ineffable plan’ bits) to the Ra Ra Riot and they’d offered to dedicate the song to Aziraphale. Crowley had denied their offer vehemently, insisting with the kind of intensity that made people obey him, that _nobody_ was to _ever_ find out who the song had been written for.

“Darling,” Aziraphale murmured, flipping his book shut. It was a new endearment that had only popped up since the world had continued to exist and it honestly did dangerous things to Crowley’s heart.

“Nevermind,” Crowley rushed, standing up in one fast, jerky motion. “I have things to tend to anyways, you can listen all you want.”

He headed to the door, feeling sort of jittery all at once and needing a way to get rid of his anxious energy. It was ridiculous, really, to be feeling this way around Aziraphale. The events of one week should in no way outweigh the events of the previous 6000 years but, somehow, they did. As soon as Crowley was certain that the war was over and Aziraphale was safe, he’d considered dropping onto his bed and taking another century-long nap. At the very least, it would give him a decent amount of time to avoid his feelings.

But something inside of him had said that he couldn’t handle this the same was he’d handled things in the past. This was a new world and for once they really, truly, didn’t have loyalties. Nothing was the same, everything was teetering on a razor sharp edge and Crowley felt like he was brittle, splintering apart at the seams. The faintest breeze felt like it could push him over the edge and he was nearly certain that he’d shatter upon impact with the ground. 

“My dearest Crowley,” Aziraphale began as Crowley was crossing the threshold from the living area at the back of the bookshop into the heart of the shop itself. “We can never thank you enough for the gift of this amazing song.”

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks, recognizing the words that were coming out of Aziraphale’s mouth. Months after the song became a big hit, the Ra Ra Riot had sent him a letter, thanking him and informing him that he (and strongly hinted at guest) had a standing invitation at any show of theirs for as long as they were performing. Crowley had hidden the letter in one of the only books he’d had in his house because, well because the letter also said—

“Your lyrics are catchy, but also heartfelt. I know we already tried to convince you of this once, but you really ought to tell Azi—” Aziraphale continued, his tone light but clearly self aware of his doings.

“Where did you get that?” Crowley asked, spinning around and cutting him off before he could finish the sentence. He knew what it said, of course he knew what it said. That sentence alone had been the reason he’d nearly burned the letter upon receiving it— his biggest fear was that this exact moment would happen someday. 

Aziraphale looked up at him then, his expression gentle and Crowley was able to get his answer without Aziraphale even speaking. The book that was spread out in front of him was a book Crowley recognized well— because it was one of the only books Crowley kept in his apartment. The book was flipped open and Crowley could easily see the wrinkled sheet of paper spread out across the pages. It looked softer than he remembered, as if Aziraphale had tried to smooth it out. He probably had— bookkeeper and all that. It had probably been impossible for him to see a crumpled piece of paper and leave it alone. 

At least Aziraphale had the decency to look contrite, as if he knew he’d done something wrong. “When I was at your house a few days ago and you were watering your plants, I— well, I came across your bookshelf. And I was so interested in the books you have there because, frankly, I was surprised to see that you had any books at all.”

Crowley let out a long, slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and pushing his sunglasses up higher. This felt like a second world ending which might be dramatic to say but Crowley could admit he had a flair for the dramatic on occasion. “Right, well, I’m perfectly fine to pretend this never happened.”

A moment passed and Crowley dropped his arms back to his side, shoving his hands in his pockets and feeling awkward around Aziraphale for maybe the third time in 6000 years. He waited— he was always waiting, it felt like— as patiently as he possibly could for Aziraphale to respond. He had a fleeting moment of hope when Aziraphale gently closed the book again, smoothing his hands down the cover with reverence and adoration. It sent a shiver down his spine, knowing that loving gesture was meant for the letter inside, not the book itself. 

“When, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked gently, lifting the book up and clutching it to his chest as if he were afraid Crowley was going to try snatching it from his grip at any moment. 

“When what, Angel?” Crowley choked out. He was still considering just turning on his heel and stalking out of the bookshop all together. His secret had already been revealed, there was no real reason for him to stay and have the conversation.

But Aziraphale was looking up at him with pleading eyes, his lips downturned in a frown that cut straight to Crowley’s heart. Crowley certainly didn’t want to have this conversation, but Aziraphale clearly did. And Crowley was nothing if not incapable of denying the angel anything and everything he wanted. “When did you write this song?”

“1764,” It felt like a punch in the gut to admit it out loud. Crowley had done everything in his power to seem unbothered by that fight— to appear as if it hadn’t in any way affected him. As far as he could tell, Aziraphale had fallen for his facade, because they’d never spoken about it— Aziraphale had never felt the need to apologize, which was something he’d always been good about when he needed to be. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale breathed, standing up from his seat and depositing the book on his desk, instead closing the distance between them and placing his hands on Crowley’s arms. “I had no idea—“

“I know, Angel.” Crowley, for all his best efforts, couldn’t let Aziraphale feel bad for even a moment. Tormenting humans was a casual pastime of his, something that had never once kept him up at night. But he’d lose years of sleep if he knew that he’d made Aziraphale feel bad for even the briefest of seconds. “I made sure you had no idea.”

It didn’t appease Aziraphale the way Crowley wanted it to. In fact, he looked more stricken than he had before. He was distinctly frowning now, his eyes cloudy with a mixture of emotions— all of them negative, it seemed. Crowley couldn’t take it, his heart felt like it was ripping to pieces in his chest. Traitorous thing, his heart. His human body needed it and yet, it’d never done anything but defy and betray him. 

“I can’t— I—” Crowley swallowed down the rest of his words, disentangling himself from Aziraphale and stalking out of the bookshop with very little of his dignity intact. 

* * *

It hadn’t been the smoothest way to handle the situation, that was for sure. Crowley had peeled away from the bookshop at speeds that alarmed even him, leaving Aziraphale with the note and undoubtedly a lot of questions. Crowley knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’d have to find a way to make it up to Aziraphale. 

He’d spent 6000 years denying his feelings for fear of them becoming a burden to Aziraphale or in some way endangering him. The latter was no longer a problem now that heaven and hell were out of the way, but ditching out of the bookshop mid conversation was a sure fire way to make sure his feelings became a burden to Aziraphale. So, he gathered up as much of his courage as he could, tucked his notebook under his arm and returned to the bookshop, stopping briefly on the way for Aziraphale’s favorite takeout. 

“We’re closed!” Aziraphale called as Crowley sauntered through the door, arms full.

“Even to an old friend?” He teased as he locked the door again behind himself.

Aziraphale popped out from between the shelves almost immediately, his expression somewhere between delighted and hesitant and Crowley couldn’t blame him for the mixed emotions. “Crowley, darling, I wasn’t expecting you!”

The use of the new pet name warmed Crowley’s heart and briefly he wondered if he really deserved to be called that. “Dinner, angel?”

“Love some,” Aziraphale confirmed, stepping forward to take some of the take out boxes from Crowley’s arms and escort him to the back. 

They moved through the motions so fluidly— it was a dance they had been practicing for years. In no time, they were in their usual seats, Crowley reclined in what he hoped was a nonchalant way and Aziraphale sitting stick-straight as always, smiling down at his food. For a second, it felt like it had before. Crowley was comfortable and content, unwilling to let anything get in the way of that feeling. Because _this_ was what he wanted for his life. He wanted to have evenings with Aziraphale, to have the luxury of walking into the bookshop whenever he wanted to with no pretense. He wanted to just exist, and to be able to freely chase the things he desired. And if the thing he desired so happened to be an angel, well, he wanted to not feel as if his entire existence was at risk over that fact. 

If Aziraphale noticed the notebook with Crowley— and Crowley was sure that he did— he politely didn’t say anything. He also didn’t immediately bring up the other issue at hand, which Crowley was grateful for. He was letting Crowley work up the courage— letting Crowley decide when to bring it up. And that was something Crowley loved about him. 

That was one thing on the long, long list of reasons that Crowley loved Aziraphale. It was one thing on the list of reasons that Crowley had been accumulating for 6000 years. 

But, as much as Crowley wanted to continue to keep this list a secret, as much as he wanted to resume running from the issue at hand, he knew he couldn’t. His relationship with Aziraphale— whether platonic or more— was at stake. And honestly, there wasn’t any secret worth risking their relationship. There wasn’t anything at all, secret or otherwise, that was worth risking their relationship. 

They continued to eat in silence, Aziraphale doing most of the eating and Crowley simply moving the food around on his plate. It wasn’t for appearances— Aziraphale knew his eating habits— it was more of a nervous gesture. Even now, even after Armagedidn’t, Crowley was reading too much into things. He was putting too much stock into Aziraphale’s words, believing too strongly that Aziraphale meant what he said. More often than not, he didn’t mean anything he said.

He said he’d never give Crowley holy water, but he did. He said he’d never team up with Crowley but their arrangement had lasted hundreds of years. And, honestly, if it weren’t for Armagedidn’t, their arrangement would’ve continued on. Aziraphale was in the business of denying his heart, which meant he often said a lot of things that he didn’t mean or intend to back up. Crowley was absolutely certain of this.

Because Crowley was in the business of denying his heart, too, so he knew what it looked like.

Finally the silence had gone on for too long and Crowley knew he needed to either hand the notebook over now or he never would. And, although Aziraphale was a forgiving person, he was fairly certain that stalking out unceremoniously and avoiding the conversation for a second time would put a permanent dent into their friendship.

“Angel,” Crowley says, although it’s pointless. Despite the food, Crowley has had Aziraphale’s unwavering attention the entire time he’s been here and he knows it. He could feel it, the weight of it settling onto his bones. It wasn’t expectant, but it was there. A low, constant pressure. 

Still, Aziraphale looks up at him dutifully, pretending he hadn’t been watching Crowley move his food around out of the corners of his eyes all evening. And, when Crowley offers up the notebook that has been sitting in his lap— a weight far more unbearable than that of Aziraphale’s attention— he takes it without preamble. The most he does is look to Crowley for permission to open it. Crowley doesn’t move, can’t even bring himself to make the slightest of nods. But he doesn’t protest either, and that’s enough for Aziraphale to flip open the cover and begin scanning the words inside.

Even if Crowley hadn’t handed it to Aziraphale directly, even if Aziraphale had stumbled upon it in the middle of the street, or a library, even if Crowley had left it behind in the bookshop anonymously, Aziraphale would have known that it was his. Not only had they exchanged their fair share of handwritten letters over the centuries, but the words within that notebook couldn’t possibly be meant for someone else. And they couldn’t possibly be _from_ someone else. There was so much emotion spilled into every word, so much history written between the lines, it was impossible to mistake this notebook for anything other than what it was:

A long-standing and continuous love confession.

The notebook was filled to the brim with different poems and songs. It was filled to the brim with every word Crowley had ever wanted to say to Aziraphale but swallowed down— whether it be for Aziraphale’s protection of because of his own cowardice, he couldn’t say. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale breathed in wonder, despite the fact that he was only a few pages into the notebook. His hand had lifted to cover his mouth at one point and there was a wistful edge to the crinkle of his eyes. He almost looked choked up. 

“Listen, angel,” Crowley stopped looking at him. Couldn’t look at him. Absolutely would not get through this if he had to look at Aziraphale with that soft expression for even a moment longer. “There’s no delicate way to say this, especially when you don’t feel the same. But you found the song—”

Carefully, with more love and adoration than Crowley had ever seen Aziraphale give _anything_ , Aziraphale closed the cover of the notebook, clutching it to his chest with one hand while the other reached out to grab Crowley’s where it rested on the table. “My darling, you must know by now how I feel.”

“I do,” Crowley cleared his throat. Damn human body and it’s ridiculous reactions. There was no reason for his throat to be tight right now, no reason for him to feel a hollow sort of ache in the middle of his chest. “I believe you made it quite clear at the bandstand. Even a demon couldn’t miss your point there, angel.”

At that, Aziraphale deflated. He sagged in on himself, the arm holding the notebook going slack. The only thing that remained firm was his grip on Crowley’s hand. “Crowley, darling, surely you don’t think those are my true feelings?”

“What reason do I have to think otherwise, angel?” Some part of Crowley obviously did believe otherwise, though, or he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have announced himself as an old friend when he arrived. He wouldn’t keep coming back, day after day, night after night, wouldn’t allow his heart to remain tangled up in Aziraphale. 

Well, maybe that last part weren’t true. Mostly because he didn’t think it possible to disentangle his heart. But the point still remains: a part of him— foolish, maybe. hopeful, definitely— believes that Aziraphale didn’t mean those words. And that part of him so desperately needs to hear Aziraphale say it.

Suddenly, Aziraphale slides out of his chair, tugging on Crowley’s until his chair is turned to face Aziraphale completely. Aziraphale kneels in front of him, hands placed earnestly on each of Crowley’s knees, blue eyes imploring at him from below. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. I needed you to believe my words in that moment, but I never expected you to hold on to them. I should have known.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say in response to this, didn’t know how to even continue breathing in the light of the moment, but he managed that, at least. In the end, he didn’t need to say anything, because there was more on Aziraphale’s mind. 

With a steadying breath, Aziraphale reached up to gently cup Crowley’s cheek in his hand and it was all Crowley could do to not combust into hell fire on the spot, taking them both down. “Crowley, darling, this will be nowhere near as eloquent and beautiful as that notebook you gave me. I could never hope to be that splendid with words, but I must try. “ _Demons don’t cry,_ Crowley reminds himself because crying is becoming more appealing with each passing moment, with each beat of his heart that is still yearning for Aziraphale. “Do you remember the church? When you saved me from those awful Nazis?”

“ ‘course I do,” Crowley managed to choke out.

“That was the day I realized I was in love with you,” For hell’s sake, who let Aziraphale be so blunt? As if Crowley’s poor human heart could handle it. “It wasn’t the day I fell in love with you, of course,” Aziraphale pressed on like this was a normal, casual conversation and not something 6000 years in the making. He spoke as if it were obvious that they were going to get here someday, like he always knew that eventually he would say these words. Crowley had certainly never been that confident in the matter. “As far as I can tell, that happened the day we met. Or a little bit every day since then. All I know is that I’ve loved you for a very long time. And I’m sorry for what I said, I’m sorry that I had to say it. But Crowley, you must know, every time I’ve said something like that, I was trying to protect you.”

Crowley wasn’t crying, but he wanted to be. The urge was strong, but he managed to triumph over it somehow. Still, his voice was a little strangled when he finally collected himself enough to respond. “And you said you wouldn’t be good at this. By all accounts, that was pretty spectacular, angel.”

Aziraphale beamed up at him, finally straightening up from his spot on the ground. His hands moved from Crowley’s knees to his hands, tugging him up so that they were standing face to face. Aziraphale looked like he wanted to say more, and maybe he did, but he didn’t look like he had any idea how to say it. So Crowley took his opportunity, the opportunity he’d been waiting 6000 years for. He leaned forward and captured Aziraphale’s lips in a kiss that was more searing than hell’s fires and burned him from the inside out more than holy water ever could.

Crowley had been to the Garden of Eden, had lived in what was supposed to be paradise, and it was nothing compared to this. Not a single thing Crowley had ever encountered was as beautiful as Aziraphale, and nothing had ever tasted so sweet. This was Crowley’s personal heaven and it was easy for him to see how he’d filled an entire notebook (or two, or three, or twenty) by waxing poetic about Aziraphale. 

And as they pulled apart, only the briefest of distances, Crowley realized something. It had been right there in front of him all along.

While he had been loving Aziraphale so much he was willing to stare down Gabriel while standing in a hell fire tornado, Aziraphale had been loving him back just as much. Enough to sit in a bathtub full of holy water in the pits of hell. 

The answer had been right there all along but he’d been too afraid to see it.

He was about to say something further to Aziraphale when he felt Aziraphale’s hand snake up the back of his neck and curl into the hair at the base of his neck, pulling him back down in a kiss. And then, for the time being, words didn’t matter. He knew all he needed to know, so he allowed himself to kiss Aziraphale like his life depended on it. To kiss him like he’d waited 6000 years to do so.

And who knows, maybe these kisses will spur a few more hit songs. 


End file.
